


Call, Upon Deaf Ears.

by Ashida



Series: Call My Name [1]
Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Drabble, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:39:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4504494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashida/pseuds/Ashida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And wish for once that he could actually hear you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call, Upon Deaf Ears.

**Author's Note:**

> I have the Gangsta bug.... help.
> 
> hand signs in italics.

Call, Upon Deaf Ears.

 

Violence rattled through the small Benriya apartment, windows clattered and wall panels shook with all the anger of a woman scorned as the door slammed shut behind one of Worick’s clients. Well… ex clients now.

 

“Shit.” Worick sighed and pressed a soothing palm against the scars where his eye should be, the pain ebbed with each breath, only to come back full force with the realization of his actions.

 

He fucked up.

 

Luckily, Nic wasn’t back from his rounds by the time Big Mama got the news of his slip of the tongue and called to _very thoroughly_ voice their disappointment, the phone blared obnoxious and loud in the silence Worick had tried so hard to collect himself in.

 

How much had the woman told Big Mama? Worick would never find out, because as usual she didn’t let on how much she knew, what information she held over another, and he didn’t want to even broach the subject to ask. You know, let sleeping dogs lie and all that jazz.

 

One word from his mouth had cost Big Mama one of Pussy’s most valued clients, because no way would a woman like that; take a slight as impertinent as this.

 

He couldn’t care less about that though, really, like the proverbial shots fired it was already said and done, he’d cost Big Mama and himself money, owed Big Mama a favor or five, and had been stood down from his gigolo job until he sorted his shit out because it wasn’t like him to cock up that badly.

 

No, the aftershock he was really dreading was Nic finding out, because _he’d_ want to know what happened, only so he could laugh and poke fun with that stupid tongue of his that he couldn’t even use properly, use it in his arsenal of mockery and taunts that was still at the maturity level of the age when they first met, nothing more the standard between them.

 

Except this time he couldn’t tell Nic why, because Nic _was_ the reason why, he was a Tag for fuck’s sake, Nic was pretty much the reason for any trouble that was stupid enough to bite them in the ass now days.

 

That wasn’t even it this time though, it was what he’d done to bring Nic into it that was the problem, it told of so many things Worick had left unspoken, all the things that should stay that way, whether or not Nic could actually hear him. Worick had heard himself say it, and that was all there was to it.

 

Too many truths had bubbled up with this, and he could only patch it over like the façade over his eye for so long. Nic picked up on everything, _everything,_ and he knew the Tag would ask _._

*

 

 

Since his gig had ended early that day, all Worick could do was wait in his own tension until Nic came home, let the apartment steep in smells of indecision and brooding so much so that it hit Nic full in the face the instant he walked through the door.

 

With his usual expression of indifference the Tag scanned the apartment before turning his gaze back to Worick in silent question, but Worick chose to stare out the window onto the street instead, forcing Nic to speak.

 

“Wot happuned?” the voice rung out, wary, and coarse with disuse.

 

Some things were better off getting over and done with, a quick kill was better than a slow painful death any day of the week.

 

He signed without looking to Nic, even though there was nothing outside worth his attention, _“I pissed off a client big time.”_

“Huh?” and that was Nic’s minimalistic way of asking how.

 

 _“…. I said the wrong person’s name.”_ he signed again with a breath tentatively held, wondering if Nic was going to ask.

“Pfft.” Was all the answer he got, a thud of footsteps and grunt of nonchalance as Nic went downstairs to get a drink.

 

There it was, the reaction he knew he’d get before Nic found out whose name Worick had actually said, the typical shit happens attitude and we’ll deal with it resolve that they’d adopted for all these years.

 

Worick made it a point to never use names, what was the point in calling their names for them to hear, when the only person who he wanted to listen wouldn’t _ever_ be able hear him, at all. Irony was a bitch.

 

But he’d slipped up this time, with this client and her dark pixie cut and slender frame, he’d taken her from behind, and if he closed his eye enough, blurred his vision in wishful thinking; it could almost have been someone else, and he’d said the truth out loud, hit himself in the face with it just as the client had, maybe Nic would, too.

 

Well, he could only find out.

 

Worick had spun himself around by the time Nic came up from the kitchen, given himself full view of the Tag with his fitted black shirt and cargo pants, those mid calf combat boots and the murder encased in that midnight scabbard, the real thing he wanted to see.

 

 _“You’re just loosing your game to old age.”_ Nic signed after tossing a drink across the room, he then sat with his own, legs folded on the couch to take up as little space as possible, and faced his direction with a mocking twinkle in his eye and that damn tongue out.

 

“Ha, if only you knew what I was actually losing to.” It was unfair of him to mutter under his breath, Nic couldn’t hear him, and Nic’s keen sense already picked up that Worick had done so on purpose, baiting him into the oncoming conversation.

 

 _“What is it then?”_ came the movements; crisp and precise with no shortcuts or lazy gestures, a blank statement.

 

“You want to know whose name I said?” Worick pressed, signing along with his words.

 

A pause of introspection halted those calloused hands, _“Not really.”_ But then Nic shrugged it off like he didn’t care, or maybe he cared too much. Of all the things Worick could read, Nic was never one of them.

 

“Ah, true. What’s the point when they couldn’t hear me no matter how hard I try.” He left his own statement open, the innuendo obvious to him but something Nic, even with his perfect vision, failed to grasp.

 

Nic’s barricades were up as high as he’d ever seen them, keeping his truths out and the Tag’s in, the air was sharp with questions, because it could still all fall either way. He could play it off and joke, give a false name and hope it was jealously pursing Nic’s brows right now, or spell it out and hope that it _wasn’t_ Nic about to turn away from him in aversion.

 

 _“What is that meant – no.”_ Nic cut off his own sign midway with a grimace and a scratch of his head, _“I don’t wanna know who you think about when you fuck. Nasty.”_

 

Ambiguity was Nic’s biggest talent, and he was playing on that strength like he’d overdosed on Celebrer, all those possibilities that Worick wanted a glimpse of were impossible to pick up on, even after all these years.

 

“Why don’t you want to know?” he could feel the boundaries he was pushing, when Nic didn’t want to talk about something, that was it, the tension already coiled tight from waiting for this moment all day only heightened, and he knew Nic would shut down any second now, turn away so he couldn’t see, and Worick had to get there before that happened.

 

 _“Why would I want to know?”_ came the rebutted sign, fast, indignant and stubborn. _“Tell them, not me.”_

The Twilight’s well-defined shoulders were drawn taught, his expression severe, he really didn’t want to know, didn’t want to know if it was him, or if it was someone else.

 

Worick had to forge on ahead right now, or the moment would dissipate, he’d backed Nic into a corner, and a cornered Tag was dangerous.

 

“I’ll tell you.” He spoke clearly, seeing Nic’s jaw clench as he watched Worick’s fingers sign one word after another.

 

“Don’t, Worick.” And how unfair was it that of all the things Nic could pronounce perfectly; it was _his_ name instead, his name to resound in Worick’s ears with threat and _hurt,_ because Nic didn’t want to cross any of these lines.

 

“You need to know.” He signed along with his earnest voice, and before he could even start spelling it out, Nicolas, letter by letter; the Tag was before him with those piercing hawk eyes and a constrictor’s grip locking Worick’s wrists together in a cage.

 

Turmoil and struggle stared back at him, a knowing gaze that was inwardly terrified to change anything between them, the Tag had already wrought enough destruction on Worick’s life, any more than this would lead to ruin, they’d seen that all first hand.

 

“I… don’ wanna ear’t, Worick.”

 

Like whiplash Nic’s rough hands withdrew and left red marks in their wake, he turned, and with his drink forgotten on the coffee table; picked up his katana and stalked towards the door.

 

“Nicolas.” Worick said it anyway; he called upon those deaf ears as that lithe frame drew further away, unhearing and oblivious, as he always would be.

 

Violence rattled through the small Benriya apartment, windows clattered and wall panels shook with all the resentment of a Tag conflicted as the door slammed shut behind the only person who Worick actually wished could hear him.


End file.
